Her True Name

I am here, scraping wood from graphite- refining, shaping, sharpening, discerning- the tips of the pencils (vision bearers that they are), the tools I use to make, to mark...when I am filled with memories of her. That mysterious woman! She bequeathed me these tools, you know? And much, much more... I muse. I ponder. As I watch the points grow sharper and sharper...

Her name? Her name was in transition when we met. Literally! She had it changed in my very house, just before she gifted me with these treasures.

"Take them, Kara."

"Oh no, I can't. They 're so beautiful, so personal. And all your art supplies! It's too much. You need these. You... you, you'll want these back you know."

"No, I won't. I will enjoy buying new art supplies, that's for sure. Just the other day I was in the art store, dreaming of what new supplies I will have some day. However, I am aware that, for now, I have to travel light. There is no way I can bring all these things with me. If you don't want them, give them to Goodwill or something."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, put them on the side of the road for all I care! God is leading me somewhere, Kara. I just know it. I trust God. I trust in what He has told me. There is something better for me- My heart is somewhere else. And God is leading me to it."

I admired the way she spoke about God. Like she actually knew him! Like he was standing right there next to her! She was so confident, so sure. I half wondered if she was insane at times. However, I always loved that about her- her intensely personal relationship to God. Her living faith. Her...her... what was her name again?

"Marjorie! " She said, with a big smile. "My name is Marjorie!"

"Hi Marjorie, my name is Kara."

We smiled.

I never wanted to call her by that name. Marjorie? No, no, that is not your name. That is not who you are. There is another name for you Marjorie. It was always on the tip of my tongue. If I could just wrap my knowing around it...Was it Mary? Or Margaret? It should not have surprised me when she decided to have her name changed. But what can I say? It did. She did. Marjorie-Mary-Margaret surprised me. Actually, she shocked me— She gave me something to dream about, something to play with, something to grow into, something to marvel at, even something of a warning. The truth is, that woman gave me a wake up call.

We met working at a beauty store during the holiday season of 2007. She mentioned France, and art, and Jesus, and Waffle House— we were friends immediately.

She was a Christian- a “born-again.” I liked to hear about her faith. I would imagine us as sisters in Biblical times. Maybe it was her name- that it began with “Mar”- but I actually always imagined us as Martha and Mary Magdalene—the good friends of Christ.

The problem was that I was not really a Christian, the way she was a Christian. I didn’t go to church. I didn’t believe in half the things they taught there. I had had mystical experiences. I had spent a few years following them in and out of the Christian churches. I always left feeling confined and a bit confused (and a little ashamed of myself too). Too many rules. Too many things didn’t feel right. However, despite the fact that I nursed some old wounds from my past experiences in religious congregations, my real problem was not so much my bitterness, as it was that I really didn’t know who or what I was, or how to express what I truly believed in. I ached to express something, but what, or how?

When I met Marjorie, I saw the way her God was also her closest confidant and friend. I saw how her God went before her and arranged things on her behalf. I saw how her God gave her the courage to step out— to step out into the unknown—to follow her dreams, to be an artist, to change her name, to move to France and transcend the trauma of her youth. That- that- was what I wanted! I could forgive the dogmatic shell of her Christian belief system, I could set aside my own bitterness and judgments, because what was inside of her felt wild and true—felt real to me— and she was putting it to the test in a brave way.

She called me one day last summer, after I had not heard from her in a while.

I’m moving Kara.

Oh, really, when?

Now.

Oh, cool! Where are you moving to?

I’m not sure yet.

What do you mean, you’re not sure yet? You’re still looking for a place?

I guess you could say that. I am sure God will provide.

Uh, okay. Did you check downtown?

Yes, but I have to move now. I am moving now.

Wait, where are you?

I’m at Waffle House. Do you want to meet me here for lunch?

Wait, you’re at Waffle House? Have you moved already?

Yes, I am here with my U-Haul. There have been some strange things going on. I would love to tell you about them.

Wait a second. You mean you are sitting at Waffle House with all your stuff packed in a U-Haul and you have no place to live!?

I am sure God has a place for me.

God-shmod! You can’t do that! Wait, I am on my way home. Can you meet me at my house? The girl who lives upstairs is never there. She practically lives with her boyfriend. Maybe you can rent the loft from her for a few weeks until you find a place of your own?

That’s how our goodbye began—for two weeks she stayed with me, sharing her past, her secrets, what she was escaping from, and what she hoped to become. She shared with me her heart, her dreams, her prayers, her faith—before she changed her name, gave me her most beloved possessions, and disappeared from my life completely.

I marvel at how quick I was to rescue her that day— that there was not a moment’s hesitation in my decision! The truth is that, even though we knew each other very briefly, and mostly in the context of working together, I knew the quality of her faith. I knew the recklessness in it- the complete willingness to risk everything for something she believed in. I knew it, because deep, deep, deep inside, that is the quality of my own faith. And having lived with that quality in myself my whole life, I knew it had the potential to put me in danger- to get me into trouble! I sensed she was in need that day, and my heart responded with complete willingness to help. Little did I know then, that in rescuing her, I was actually rescuing a part of myself.

***

As the flakes of my pencil shavings fall to the floor, I look around my new art studio with deep, deep satisfaction. Marjorie’s beautiful drafting table and drying rack are the staple pieces of furniture in the room. I have arranged the space into stations— I have a prayer and meditation station, a writing station, a music creation station, a painting station, a pondering station, a yoga station. My joke with myself is that I am in God’s Montessori school- going around to the different stations to do my “work.” This joke makes me feel small, supported, and loved. That is something I feel now- that I am truly known, truly supported, and truly loved, within myself.

Marjorie’s pencils and pens, her paints and bases, her Chinese calligraphy set, French novels, art books, and theological anthologies are scattered about the room, mixed with my own, unique tokens of self expression—a yoga mat, an image of Kali, my easel, my drawings, a tapestry of Shiva, an astrology book. For a while I hid her treasures, as I had my own. I stuffed them under my bed and shoved them in boxes, where they grew dull with disuse. Eventually, they were covered over by dust and the psychic overgrowth of my mind. It is only through grace- through the grace of my heart- that I have found the courage to dig them out again, and to take this chance in expressing my spirituality and creativity in the way I always wanted to.

Whoever she was, this Marjorie, whoever she is now, I am so grateful that she shared with me the deepest part of herself. I am so grateful for her bravery and honesty. I am so grateful for the tools and the inspiration she gave me to transform myself.

I have tried to find her. I have been to her favorite French restaurant downtown. I have asked about her. Once I even found her old roommate.

Last I heard she made it to New York City. She was living up there for a while.

Did she ever make it to Paris?

That I don’t know, sweetie. But if you find out, let me know.

Whoever you are, wherever you are, Mystery Woman, I pray that you find yourself—I pray you come to know your true name. Know that you touched me deeply, I am grateful, and I love you.